


shouldering sunset

by blackkat



Series: Mace/Ponds drabbles [1]
Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Getting Together, Humor, M/M, Mutual Pining, Romance, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:01:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22438396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: It’s always been something of a point of pride, for Ponds, that he never really has to worry about his general.
Relationships: CC-6454 | Ponds/Mace Windu
Series: Mace/Ponds drabbles [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1614610
Comments: 36
Kudos: 810
Collections: Fun/Humour/Crack in a Galaxy Far Far Away, Jedi Journals, Mace Windu Rare Pairs, Star Wars Alternate Universes





	shouldering sunset

**Author's Note:**

> for the prompt: Mace/Ponds and... i am not even sure if this counts as a prompt but... THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED. (Maybe their hosts misunderstood what it means to be General and Commander? Maybe that is normal for people in their culture? Anyway, Ponds' Jedi has not slept in twentyfour hours HE KNOWS IT and he'll be damned if he will take the General's bed over a measly little dislocated shoulder...)

It’s always been something of a point of pride, for Ponds, that he never really has to worry about his general.

This is a war, so of course there’s always _some_ worry, and Ponds does his best to make sure he always has Mace's back, but it’s also a hell of a lot less stressful than it could be, going by what he’s heard at the infrequent meet-and-bitch club the other commanders have set up. When he’s there, he just kicks back and listens to Cody, Bly, Wolffe, Gree, and Rex bemoan the way their Jedi throw themselves out of airborne ships, lose their lightsabers, run off into the most dangerous parts of the battlefield, fall into massive unexplored tunnel systems, flirt with the enemy, and generally give every last one of their commanders grey hairs before their time.

There’s always an _immense_ amount of satisfaction to be had in pausing deliberately when the buck gets to him, taking a slow sip of his drink, and saying, _Well, Mace always keeps me updated on his position, and he always sticks with his backup, and I don’t think I've ever seen him take an unnecessary risk. Maybe it’s just you?_

Last time Cody threw his drink at him. It’s always a good time.

Still, Ponds might have slightly more sympathy for the rest of the commanders now, given how this mission has gone. Not that Mace did anything too risky, or massively reckless, but Sep ground forces shot down their ships and proceeded to chase them halfway across the continent on foot. This whole planet is a deathtrap of a swamp, too, and Ponds has never come so close to _actually_ getting eaten before in his life. By _plants_ , half the time, which is especially annoying, and as soon as they get leave he’s going to find a nice restaurant, order a massive salad, and enjoy every vindictive bite.

He’s covered in mud, exhausted to the bone, sore and aching where a long fall kept him from getting chomped on but dislocated his shoulder, and more than ready to keel over and sleep for a week by the time they drag themselves into the capital city of the planet. The rest of the men don’t look any better, and neither does their Jedi. Mace, normally so carefully put-together and elegant, is as mud-caked as the rest of them, with deep lines of exhaustion in his face that worry Ponds. There were no extra risks, but—

Mace has definitely been awake for over a cycle now, and alert and fighting for practically every moment of it. He’s scorched and limping and thin-lipped, grim even as he greets their worried hosts with his usual careful poise. Ponds can't make out everything that’s being said, but he definitely catches an offer for a bed, and the relief is warm flicker in his chest. Mace needs sleep. He’d let the troopers rest while he kept watch several times, holding off the native fauna alone so they’d get at least a little sleep, but it means he never got to so much as close his eyes. If he gets a bed, that’s all Ponds needs to know.

“Everything going smooth, sir?” he asks as Mace approaches, and straightens up from the wall he was sitting on. Their medic was on the transport that escaped the bombing, but Hawkeye’s got some knowledge and is working his way through the men, offering bacta and brusque sympathy. Ponds has been waiting for him to finish before he asks for any, because some of the troopers need the bacta more than his achy shoulder does, and the narrow, assessing look Mace gives him says that he knows exactly what Ponds is thinking and doesn’t approve.

“Yes, Commander,” is all he says, though, and he folds his hands behind his back. “Our hosts have been kind enough to offer their guest wing for the troops tonight.”

Ponds, who had been expecting to bed down in a hallway or a courtyard somewhere, blinks in surprise. Pauses, looking back at the planet’s queen with her grimly determined expression, and breathes out. “They don’t have a problem with clones, sir?”

One of Mace's brows arches, just a millimeter of movement that manages to convey amused tolerance even so. “At this point, Commander, I can't say I would give a damn if they did.”

Ponds snorts, because he _knows_ that’s a lie, but he appreciates the sentiment. Shouldering his blaster, he looks over the men, then swallows a sigh. “I’ll get them sorted, then, if the rooms are ready—”

“Military leaders and an offer of lodging have significant weight in Queen Mirishti’s culture,” Mace says, and tips his head just enough for Ponds to fall into step with him as they turn back towards the queen. “The men will be seen to by her aides, but we’re expected to let her show us to our rooms personally. Refusing is an insult.”

The last thing Ponds wants to do is insult their hosts, since that would probably see them tossed back out into the swamp. With a grimace behind his helmet, he turns, catches Razor’s eye, and signals for him to take charge. Razor salutes, and Ponds turns back just as they reach the queen and her two top aides.

“Your Majesty,” Mace says, and folds his hands together in a complicated gesture, then bows. “My right hand, Commander Ponds.”

Mirishti’s face is a strange blend of feathers and scales, elegant and dangerous. She bows her head in return, and says, “General Jedi, Commander Ponds. My halls are open to you. Will you rest with us a night or more?”

“We would be honored,” Mace answers gravely. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

It has the air of ritual, so Ponds keeps his mouth shut, bows when Mace does, and follows the queen as she turns and heads into the sprawling white stone palace. It’s a pretty place, and Ponds can register that even through a haze of exhaustion; it’s built in the middle of a wide, slow-moving section of river, with forest all around, and even if the logistics of defending a place like this make Ponds’s skin crawl, he can appreciate the look of so much polished white stone against the deep green of their surroundings. Given the planet’s warmth, everything’s open to the air as well, and the breeze is a relief, the lines of sight through the open arches letting some knot of tension ease out of Ponds’s shoulders.

No one’s after them anymore. Nothing’s about to burst out of the mud and grab them. It’s safe here.

“That you managed to survive our lands is impressive, General Jedi,” Mirishti says, cocking her head to look at Mace sideways. “It is one of our rituals for advancement, that a squad would survive even half the trek you did.”

“My men are very brave,” Mace says, and Ponds has to look away from his face, the steady certainty of his voice. There are too many unprofessional thoughts lingering down that path. “Skilled in all terrain, as well.”

Mirishti laughs, a strange, warbling series of chirps. “And you yourself are formidable,” she says. “My people value warriors, General Jedi. We have long heard tales of the Jedi, but thought you beneath our notice because you were lone warriors, and a lone warrior is a dead one. Now, though, we see that you are indeed alive, and appropriately loyal to your troops.” She pauses in front of a door made of black wood, and presses a finger to the pad beside it. It clicks open, swings inward, and she bows to them both, deeper this time.

“My people are honored to fight with yours,” she says. “But in the coming days, not now. Rest well, General Jedi, Commander.”

“Thank you, Queen Mirishti,” Mace says. “We are honored by your assistance and your willingness to fight with us.”

Mirishti’s lips part, and it’s probably something close to a smile, but there are too kriffing many razor-sharp teeth in the expression for it to be anywhere close to comforting. “I have missed a good fight,” she says simply, then turns and sweeps away, back towards the main hall.

Ponds blinks after her for a moment, not sure what to say. “They let their queen fight?” he asks finally.

Mace snorts quietly. “They couldn’t stop her if they wanted to. Her people pick their leader based on martial skill. As queen, Mirishti is the most dangerous person on this planet.”

Well. At least she’s on their side, Ponds thinks wryly, and steps into the room after Mace, closing the door behind them. There’s a rack for blasters, and he gratefully sets his on it, then pulls his helmet off. Not breathing through mud-clogged vents feels like a revelation, and he just stands there for a moment, so damned glad to be out of the swamp that he could die right now and go out content.

“No offense, General,” he says wryly, “but I'm really glad to be out of that hell-pit.”

Mace's sound of quiet amusement carries. “If I never see another mud puddle, it will be too soon,” he agrees, and Ponds turns to find him at the window, one hand on the sill. The expanse of the river almost glows in the evening light, and there's a sunset in shades of gold and teal staining the horizon. The light catches on Mace's face, on his closed eyes and lashes and the curve of his mouth, and Ponds almost can't breathe for a moment that has nothing to do with clogged air filters.

Then, abruptly, Mace shifts, steps away from the window and looks towards a doorway concealed by a standing screen. “There’s a bath, if you’d like, Commander,” he says. “I know I'm certainly going to indulge, and it’s big enough for two.”

Ponds is good at dealing with flares of panic, as a soldier. He swallows this one down, refusing to think about anything at all, and says, “It’s all yours, General. I need to clean my blaster before I do anything else.”

Mace inclines his head, then disappears behind the screen. A moment later, Ponds hears a rustle of cloth, a splash of water, and he has to strangle a groan, shoving the heels of his hands against his eyes. Jedi can _read minds_. He’s already on thin ice here, and it’s way too likely Mace knows and has been polite enough not to mention his commander’s _karking crush on him_ , but even so, Ponds needs to not make it a problem. He needs to stop having stupid thoughts.

It’s just…harder right now than it normally is. Ponds is willing to blame the exhaustion.

With a muttered curse at himself, he strips off the rest of his armor, setting it aside to clean later, and retrieves his blaster and his cleaning kit. Turns around, intending to claim one of the beds and spread out there, and—

There's only one bed.

Ponds stares. For a minute, he can't get his brain to register the realization; it keeps spinning through his head, disconnected and important but unable to land, and he swallows. Turns, looking a little desperately for another door, another bed, but the only other one besides the screened bathroom door leads out onto a balcony overlooking the river. The lone bed sits against the wall, mockingly large and soft-looking, all alone in the room.

Ponds tells himself very firmly that he isn't going to panic about this, either, and tries to remember how to breathe. Very deliberately, he steps past the bed, starts disassembling his blaster rifle on the little end table between two overstuffed chairs instead, and forces his brain to focus on that.

Sadly, it’s an automatic motion at this point, too easy to do to need any consideration, and the only thing in Ponds’s head is a ringing sort of awareness that Mace is one room over, will be back soon, and there's a single bed between the two of them.

It’s fine, Ponds decides, maybe a little desperately. He’d been planning to bunk down wherever he got he chance anyway, and there’s a nice deep carpet in here that will do just fine. His shoulder doesn’t hurt that much. Mace needs the bed more, after all. He hasn’t closed his eyes in far too long, and he’s their general. He needs to be in his best shape.

Ponds’s traitorous brain flickers back towards the bathroom, the sound of water, the image of Mace lean and broad-shouldered in his Jedi robes. He’s not like Obi-Wan Kenobi, losing his robes and tunics at the drop of a blaster; Ponds has never seen him more than vaguely disheveled, and even that is rare. He’s certainly never seen more than the absolute minimum of bare skin from his general, but—

It’s not going to change. Ponds will take the floor and be perfectly content with that.

(If he thinks about it for just a second, Mace in bed _with him_ , beautiful and steady and sly, sharply funny in ways that make Ponds mute his comm so he can laugh in private whenever Mace says something particularly dry, well. He’s only human, and he’s spent the last year in close quarters with a man who once took out a large portion of a droid army bare-handed, who’s the highest of the High Generals and has earned that title a dozen times over. Ponds can't be expected to be completely composed, in the face of that.)

By the time he’s slotting the last pieces of his blaster back into place, there are light steps. Mace rounds the screen, and Ponds glances up, then freezes. Whatever passes for a sleeping outfit here is loose and gauzy and white, and Mace is—

He shuts that thought away, slams a mental door on it and refuses to let it out into the light, and says instead, “General, I think the queen made a mistake.”

Mace blinks, then raises a brow. “Did she?” he asks. “And what mistake is that?”

Shit, Ponds thinks with a sinking feeling. What if Mace goes to the queen directly, says something, offends her by accident? What if Ponds stressing about the bed gets them all kicked back out into the swamp? “Only one bed, sir. I'm happy to take the floor—”

“Oh,” Mace says, and pauses, frowning faintly. He looks from Ponds to the bed, like he’s weighing a response, and then says, “No, this is my mistake. Most military units on this planet are led by married pairs or triads, and I forgot to specify that we were different. My apologies, Commander.”

Married, Ponds thinks, and then firmly shuts that train of thought down as well. “It’s no problem, sir. Like I said, I’ll just take the floor.”

Mace levels an unimpressed expression at him. “No,” he says. “You dislocated your shoulder and had it reset without any painkillers. You’ve more than earned a bed for the night, Commander.”

Ponds snorts. “All due respect, sir, but you’ve been awake a hell of a lot longer than I have. Take the bed.”

“You know, Commander,” Mace says, and Ponds realizes with a touch of dread that it’s his Negotiations Voice, which means Ponds is about to be out-logicked and run circles around until he agrees, “that bed is roughly the size of a shuttle. I think we can safely share.”

Sithing hells. Ponds has half an instant to feel an even deeper panic flare and crushes it ruthlessly. He very deliberately doesn’t think about what he was carefully not imagining a moment ago, breathes through the want that’s guilty and greedy and desperate, and says, “I don’t remember the regs, sir, but I'm pretty sure that’s not how this is supposed to go when there’s a general in the room.”

Amusement flickers across Mace's expression, quick and warm, and Ponds has to wonder how anyone else can find his general cold and distant. “Commander. We’ve been dragging ourselves through swamp for the last week. You got hurt because I couldn’t catch you in time. I don’t give a damn what the regs say about beds.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Ponds says, brain sticking on that out of everything. With some offense, he says, “You saved my _life_ , sir. The only reason you didn’t catch me after that plant dropped me was because you were in the middle of killing it. _And_ rescuing Trapper and Stak at the same time.”

Mace looks unconvinced, but he’s dignified enough not to argue. “Either way,” he says. “Unless you're concerned about sharing space with a Jedi, I think it’s the best solution.” Something wry flickers across his face, and he says, “I'm certainly too tired to worry about the propriety, but if you are, Commander, I can assure you that all I want is to sleep for a whole cycle and then take three more baths.”

There’s no polite way to say _it’s not that I don’t want to share a bed with you, it’s that I want it_ too much _, and if I wake up next to you I might kiss you_ , so Ponds doesn’t even try. Swallows, steels himself, and says, “Only one cycle? You're a stronger man than I am, sir.”

Mace snorts. “if I sleep longer than that, Obi-Wan is going to get captured by pirates and sold to a Hutt,” he says dryly. “And I’ll have to be the one to rescue him before Anakin sets off a diplomatic incident.”

Ponds pauses. Squints at him, because sometimes it’s hard to tell the different between deadpan Mace and extremely serious Mace, and then says tentatively, “I—sir? That’s _happened_?”

Mace's expression is faintly pained. “It has. And call me Mace, please. I refuse to be a general for at least the next few hours.”

Maybe Ponds feels mildly more sympathetic towards Cody and Rex, if that’s the kind of thing they have to deal with on a daily basis. “Mace,” he says, and meets Mace's eyes. “I'm deeply grateful that you're not like Kenobi _or_ Skywalker.”

Mace actually _laughs_ at that, quiet but warm. “As am I, Commander.”

“Ponds,” Ponds corrects, a kneejerk reaction. Pauses, swallows at a thought he won't allow to surface, and adds, “If you don’t mind, sir. Mace.”

Mace's smile is small, but still curls through Ponds’s chest. “Of course not. Ponds.”

His chosen name in Mace's mouth shouldn’t feel like a blow, but Ponds has to busy himself putting his blaster back with the rest of his gear so that he doesn’t have a reaction. “Thank you,” he says, and hopes it doesn’t sound too rough. “Bath’s not swamp water, right?”

Mace snorts. “I might have lost my temper if it was,” he says. “Enjoy, Ponds.”

Ponds takes himself away to do just that before he can do something potentially life-ruining, like try to get Mace to say his name in that soft tone again. By kissing him. Preferably. Or—

He doesn’t try to drown himself in the blissfully hot, clean water in the sunken bath, but it’s a close thing.

When he emerges a few too many minutes later, thoroughly scrubbed and trying to figure out some of the more complicated ties on the sleeping shirt, the lights have already been dimmed. It’s still daylight outside, and there are a lot of windows, so it’s hardly dark, but there are more shadows than there were. Mace is in the bed, on the side closest to the river, and Ponds appreciates the fact that Mace left him a spot that’s within easy reach of his blaster and between his general and the door. He also appreciates the drape of the shirt Mace is wearing, more revealing than heavy Jedi robes and not something he can force his eyes away from for long.

 _Shit_ , he thinks, with the sinking realization that he’s _definitely_ going to do something stupid before the night is up. Maybe he shouldn’t have teased Bly about his crush on General Secura so much. This is some damned kind of universe-assisted retribution, he’s sure of it.

“Ponds?” Mace asks, raising a brow at him. He sets his communicator down on the bedside table, and Ponds grabs eagerly for the distraction, even as he realizes all over again that he’s going to have to _get into bed with Mace_.

“Comms working again?” he asks.

“Not yet,” Mace says. “Queen Mirishti was willing to alert the fleet to our location, but I wanted to try to contact them myself now that we’re not knee-deep in mud.”

“Knee-deep?” Ponds mutters. “That’s an optimistic take on it, sir. Mace.”

Mace snorts quietly. “At least you had armor. Jedi robes aren’t quite as much protection against the elements.”

“Especially when those elements are trying to eat you,” Ponds says, and frowns. Thinks, for one mad moment, that he could give Mace a set of armor, or at least more than he has right now. It would be practical. It might even pass unnoticed by Mace, because it’s a Mandalorian gesture of courting but they're also in the middle of a war, and it could just be one more thing to help keep his general alive.

“Easier to get mud out of, at least,” Mace says, and settles down on his back, letting out a slow breath and closing his eyes. “I’m sure the cleaning staff will appreciate that.”

Ponds can't answer for a moment, can't look away. Mace looks…peaceful. Easy. It’s hard to think of another time Ponds has seen him that way. Even in the aftermath of Ryloth’s liberation, during the celebration, he was every inch a Jedi master, dignified and stern. Right now, with only Ponds in the room, he’s shed those layers, and—

Ponds wants to look at him forever.

“Sleep, Ponds.” Mace opens his eyes just enough to give him a narrow look, then closes them again. “If we’re lucky we have a cycle before something goes wrong. I want to take advantage of it.”

Ponds chuckles, thinking of Kenobi and Skywalker out there, getting into trouble. “Don’t the other generals have brothers with them to keep them out of trouble?”

“Nothing in the known universe,” Mace says dryly, “has ever managed to keep a Jedi out of trouble. I admire you and your brothers greatly, but even you don’t have a chance in hell.”

“I don’t know,” Ponds says before he can stop himself. “You don’t seem to get into trouble very much.”

Humor flickers across his face, and Mace turns his head to eye him. “I'm glad you think so,” he says, smile crooked and quick, and then rolls over, apparently asleep within moments.

It’s good that he is, because Ponds can't even begin to breathe right now. He stares at the line of his Jedi's back, fingers itching to touch, and swallows hard. Wants to trace down the line of Mace's spine, drag his thumb across the slant of his smile, press his mouth to the hollow of his collarbone, the curve of his throat. Just _wants_ , like he never has before, and has to close his eyes and clamp down tightly on it.

With a heavy sigh he can't quite help, he flops down on the unnervingly soft mattress, pressing his hands against his eyes again. Stays like that for a long moment, but—it’s useless. He can feel the heat of Mace's body across the space between them, feel the dip of the mattress, hear the soft sound of Mace's even breaths.

Opening his eyes, Ponds stares up at the sun-dappled ceiling, and can't imagine wanting to miss this, even if it aches.

Careful of his bad shoulder, he rolls over a little, just enough to watch Mace sleep. He’s probably not going to get this chance again, after all, and even if Mace has noticed and is just being polite, he wants to take advantage of this. One moment of closeness in a terrible, awful, unending war, but—

They're here, and they’ve survived, and Ponds can be happy with that for now.

He tries his best to stay awake until the sun has set, not wanting to lose his chance, but weeks of paranoia and constant marching are too much. Between one shift of the long shadows and the next, Ponds falls asleep, one hand curled in the blankets between, not quite allowing himself to reach out.

Ponds is too much a soldier to sleep through a change, and he comes awake with a start, eyes wide and heart racing in the darkness. Lies there, stiff, startled by the lack of noise around them, the fact that they're not in a swamp fighting commando droids and native fauna and flora in equal measure. For a moment he can’t tell what woke him, but then there’s another shift, a heavier breath, and Ponds realizes, sudden, stark, that there’s a body resting against his chest. He’s too aware of his bad shoulder, which is throbbing like a bitch, and when he twists to try and ease the pressure on it, Mace curls closer, settles deeper into the pillows.

Ponds’s free arm is draped over Mace's waist, his traitorous fingers clenched in soft white fabric, his thumb pressed against bare dark skin. Mace's head rests against his good shoulder, and he’s still, a warm weight. It’s too much, too little, and Ponds rolls halfway over, gives in to the urge to lean in and rest his forehead against Mace's. It’s not a Keldabe kiss if they're not in full armor, he tells himself. It’s not a Keldabe kiss if Mace doesn’t know Ponds _wants_ it to be a kiss. But—close enough to make his heart settle, just a little.

And then, slow, Mace's eyes open. He stays where he is for a long moment, unmoving, and Ponds’s pulse suddenly trips over itself, racing like he’s under heavy shelling. He freezes, hardly even able to bring himself to breathe, and the handful of centimeters between them is suddenly far, far too close.

And then, quiet in the near-darkness, Mace says, “Shall I assume this is why you were thinking of giving me armor earlier?” Ponds must flinch, because there’s a breath, soft, and he adds more gently, “You were projecting, and I only caught an image.”

It takes too much effort for Ponds to swallow. “Partly,” he allows, because he’s not a coward, even when cowardice is appealing. “You could get hurt without armor, but…” He allows himself one touch, a drag of his thumb across Mace's ribs before he forces himself to lift his hand, and breathes out. “I want to give it to you for other reasons, too.”

Mace is silent for a long, long moment as Ponds’s heartbeat stutters and trips. Then, careful, a callused hand catches his in the darkness, and Mace says, “I would accept.”

Everything goes very, very still inside Ponds’s head.

“But—the Order,” he manages, even though he can't make himself pull away any further. “You can't—attachment is forbidden.”

“Yes,” Mace allows, and the breath he lets out is wry. “Would you put my life above the lives of a whole squad, Ponds? Or a group of civilians?”

Ponds opens his mouth. Pauses, because he knows what he _wants_ to answer, but—

“No,” he whispers, a confession. He’s a soldier. They're fighting a war, trying to save lives. Mace can take care of himself, and in the circumstances that he can't…well. Ponds knows what Mace would _want_ him to do, and that counts for a lot.

Mace snorts, quiet, and lifts a hand. Rests his fingers against the curve of Ponds’s jaw, and says, “Good. Love is not forbidden. Attachment is what pulls us to the Dark Side. I know the weight of my duty, and yours. We serve others, not ourselves.”

Phrased like that, it doesn’t sound quite like Ponds was afraid of. A noble thing, instead of a sinking realization that his love is split too many ways, isn't deep enough for him to devote himself fully to any of them. 

“After the war, it will be better,” he says, like a promise, and Mace leans in, rests their foreheads together again.

“After,” he agrees. “But now, too.”

Ponds laughs, almost soundless, and closes the remaining space, fitting his mouth to Mace's with all the care he can muster. It’s a slow, deliberate thing, and Mace's mouth is soft, lingering in a way that threads heat up through Ponds’s veins. “Definitely now,” he agrees when they part, and dares to let his hand fall back to Mace's side, all of his fingertips touching skin this time.

Mace makes a sound of amusement, and he’s close enough that Ponds can feel the curl of his smile in the dark. “An order?” he asks, brow arched. “You are fond of giving them, aren’t you, Commander.”

Ponds would flush, but the flash of heat those words bring is centered much lower, and he swallows a groan. “ _Mace_.”

Mace is laughing at him, but silently enough that Ponds can overlook it. “Am I wrong?”

“No,” Ponds mutters, resigned, and puts a little more pressure against Mace's hip. “Are you objecting?”

Mace kisses him again, and that’s answer enough for now. Ponds will get a better one out of him eventually. But—later.


End file.
